The Boy With The Broken Halo
by Ruby Rosetta Red
Summary: My entry for the written competition at the Damien Molony Forum. Set during the events of Hal's prequel. Hal and Leo have a conversation, what do you think was going on in Hal's mind at the time? Here is my interpretation.


**This is my entry in the Damien Molony Forum Written Competition which can also be found at that site. **

**It is set during the events of Hal's prequel. Actual dialogue appears in italics. **

**What could've been going through Hal's mind during this meeting that ended up changing his life? This is my interpretation. All errors are my own and unintentional. With thanks to Toby Whithouse and his team of amazingly talented writers at Being Human, this is their show, their idea, i just like to play with it once in a while. I always put the toys back in the cupboard when i'm done. Love to hear your thoughts as always. **

** P.S. The title of the fic is as stated, from a song by The Black Keys. It fits Lord Harry to a tee. **

* * *

**The Boy with the Broken Halo.**

"_A sinister kid is a kid who_

_runs to meet his maker_

_A drop dead sprint from the day he's born_

_Straight into his maker's arms._

_And that's me, that's me_

_The boy with the broken halo._

_That's me, that's me_

_The devil won't let me be."_

_ Lyrics from 'Sinister Kid' by The Black Keys, from the album 'Brothers'_

* * *

_**1955.**_

The clamour is deafening tonight and expectation is high. I can almost taste it. In front of me the cage is being prepared for tonight's event and as a result the crowd is in a raucous, excitable mood. I cast an eye over the variety of faces present tonight. I know most of them; have had associations and dealings with them over the years, decades and in some cases even centuries. Of them, I know all that I need to know and all that I have to know. They show me respect and deference but I see the fear in their eyes, in their stance. They make sure that my every whim is granted, they fear the outcome if it is not.

Mr Snow calls me his _enfant terrible._

Everyone else calls me Lord Harry. A chosen few are allowed to call me Hal.

I sit at a table beside the cage and I'm not alone. I'm never alone and tonight, as always, I have company. I see Cutler slumped somewhat in his seat across from me with his tie half undone, the collar crumpled but he's watching everyone and everything beneath a heavy lidded seemingly uninterested gaze. He isn't aware of me watching him at the moment but he quickly will. He doesn't have the stomach for this kind of life but he has a mind like a steel trap. It's the only reason why I haven't ended him as of yet. I can sense his potential, his ambition but his equilibrium is disappointingly weak. I slowly blink and turn my head slightly to my other companion. Her name is Daisy. She looks at me and her smile is quick, sparkling and interested. I know just how interesting she can be. She's not exactly shy. Her husband is around here somewhere, lost in the crowds of people present this evening and no doubt holding court. In some circles Daisy would be considered nothing short of a slut, in others she's someone to be admired, someone liberated by their transformation. There aren't many Daisys around and with good reason. She's made her interest in me more than plain tonight and usually I'm more than happy to reciprocate but not tonight.

Tonight it bores me. All of this does.

I watch how her eyes sparkle as she takes in her surroundings, feeds off the atmosphere and the attention. She loves all of this as well as the cachet that she has garnered by being here with me.

With Lord Harry.

It feels so very tedious all of a sudden. There are some visitors from out of town here tonight, from Bristol i believe. Perhaps she can go and make their acquaintance instead.

I sigh and reach for the wine bottle in the centre of the table and at the same time I get to my feet. Immediately several pairs of eyes swivel in my direction including Daisy and Cutler; one is hopeful and the other is carefully assessing. Others nearby are ready to do my bidding, whatever my bidding may be.

"Relax, I'll be back shortly." I assure them. Cutler's gaze slides away once more. I watch how he glances at Daisy and how she returns the attention with a straightening of narrow shoulders but I see the inviting glimmer in her eyes all the same. Cutler goes a little bit red and looks away. I refrain from sighing out loud. He's still thinking about his precious Rachel. One day I will tell him how she begged for her life, how she told me that she would do anything, absolutely _anything_ to be saved. She left nothing to the imagination on what she would do. She even gave me a demonstration and I had almost changed my mind. A smile twitches the corner of my mouth as I remember. It quickly disappears and I turn, the half empty wine bottle clenched in my hand and I wend my way through the busy crowds, towards a different destination, somewhere a little bit more… peaceful.

The noise lessens to a dull roar as I make my way through the fortified door helpfully held open by the ever present Dennis. He makes to follow but pauses when I shake my head.

"No. Leave me be."

"What if the dog escapes my Lord?" he enquires and I look at him.

"He's been here for five months now Dennis, I don't think he'll escape, do you?" I tilt my head very slightly to one side. Dennis sighs and shakes his head.

"I won't be long; I just need some peace and quiet."

"Very good my Lord." he responds and watches as I walk through the door.

The staircase is weakly lit as the door clangs shut behind me. For a moment I just stand there. I can still hear them, the fever pitch roar and the excitement. I sigh and push one hand into my trouser pocket and I clutch the wine bottle a little tighter in my other hand.

I slowly descend.

* * *

The soles of my shoes crunch on the concrete as I walk towards his cell. I trail the bottom of the bottle against the wall and I listen to the noise it makes. There aren't any bars in this place; there is no need for them. We keep the dogs securely chained and suitably cowed. Oh they're angry to begin with, that's the part I enjoy the most, the blast of their fury, their indignation at being kept in such a condition but gradually over time they become dull and subservient, only truly coming alive one night a month and making me a lot of money in the process.

Especially the one that I am visiting tonight.

Time for a little bit of fun methinks.

* * *

My voice bounces off the walls and the high ceiling as I call his name. My tone is deliberate, it is derogatory and mocking. I don't expect him to react, he never does. I think that is one of the reasons why I keep coming back.

I remember when Fergus dragged him in here. He had quite the struggle to control him. He was angry, combative and so _strong_. I saw his strength in every fibre, every muscle and every bone in his body. Coupled with that indefatigable strength I also saw pride. I grinned in absolute delight when I saw him.

It would be…_fun_ breaking that pride down, breaking down that strength so instilled inside of him until he was left with nothing, nothing except the skin he inhabited and the clothes that he wore.

Five months later and neither have happened. He is still proud and he is still stubbornly strong.

I slowly approach him and I can see the mutinous expression in his eyes. A dark pleasure rises inside of me at that expression. Could tonight be the night that I will finally get a reaction out of him? Oh I hope so.

I take a mouthful of my wine and swallow and my eyes never leave his face.

I keep my voice deliberately low as I crouch down in front of him. He's filthy, his vest is grubby, his trousers equally dirty and worn. I can smell him from where I am, his werewolf scent aside, he is quite positively pungent.

* * *

He doesn't like the fact that I remind him that he has killed five people since he's been in my custody and that with luck, tonight it will rise to six. I see how his shackled fists clench in his lap. I smile to myself and look down at the half filled wine bottle that I still hold and I contemplate offering him some of it. It's very good, an excellent vintage. I wonder how he would take such an invitation. He probably wouldn't appreciate it so I don't. He'd probably spit it back in my face.

I remind him of odds beginning to shorten, of geese laying golden eggs and the price of gold beginning to drop and something changes inside of him. It makes him react and he lunges towards me. Fortunately he's secure, chained to the white washed wall behind him so he doesn't get that far. Still, I flinch back and despite the surge of adrenaline that his reaction instills in me, I laugh at him. I think that infuriates him even more. It's a reaction all the same. Finally!

"_Why do you keep coming down here?" _ His angry voice bounces off the walls.

Actually that is a very good question. Why _do_ I keep coming down here? It's not a particularly inviting place. It's cold, kept deliberately as such and it is damp and distinctly unwelcoming. I feign ignorance. _Do I?_ I walk a few steps away until I'm near the periphery of his cell but I make sure that I can see him and that he can see me.

He remains seated, his back pressed up against the wall. I recognise the hostility in his eyes, welcome it.

"_You're the only person in this building who isn't scared of me, it's refreshing…"_

He isn't, he truly isn't...afraid that is. I have seen a variety of emotions cross that proud face. I've seen hatred, hostility, pain, frustration but never once have I seen a moment of fear. Even when he is dragged out of here and pushed into that cage, surrounded by screaming vampires, baying for his blood, he has never been afraid. Before his body has undergone its monthly vicious transformation he stands in the centre of that cage and he slowly turns in a small circle, regarding us, examining us. I get the distinct impression that when he does that he's putting all our faces into his memory. What for, I'm not quite sure.

Then just as quickly his anger fades and his expression changes.

There still isn't any fear in those eyes of his. Instead there is something else and it takes me a moment to realise what it is.

He is _mocking_ me. Oh he doesn't say it in so many words but it's that little chuckle that gives him away. He accuses me of being frightened of death, of dying, of running away from it.

What does he know of death? Not once, outside of the cage, has he been put in a position where he has feared for his own existence. He has not once come close to dying and it offends me. I laugh back at him and I assure him that I am most certainly _not_ afraid of death.

His eyes almost taunt me to prove it and it irritates me more than it ever should.

I kick a small crate in front of him and I sit on it. I am level with him.

_"I was born in a brothel. I don't even know which of the six illiterate whores was my mother…"_

That is the plain, unvarnished truth. I don't know and close to four hundred and fifty years later I still wonder. I can recall each of their faces to my mind's eye and I have scrutinised them. I've look for similarities; eye colour, hair colour, shape of mouth, chin or a similar smile. I've never been able to see it. They all taunted me, told me individually that they had whelped me and then laughed cruelly at my expression of hope, of longing to be accepted and…loved. Of course it never happened.

_"but when one by one each of them was lost to disease or violence, I mourned them and they were my blood…"_

I still remember that squalid little building. I became extremely talented at making myself scarce, hiding from the customers, dodging flying fists and feet. It became second nature to me. When they became sick then I'd be the one to take care of them, nurse them in my own pitiful way. I'd mop their fevered brows, bring them what little food I could scavenge, water to sip through blistered scarred lips until eventually their pathetic useless lives were extinguished. I'd close long blind eyes and yes, I mourned them all. I shed a tear for each and every hopeless one. Maybe I secretly hoped for a whispered confession, right up until the final one breathed her last, I held onto faith that one day I would finally know the truth.

It never happened.

"…_by the time I was a young man I'd seen every dark corner of the human heart so when the army surgeon offered me eternal life in return for what little God had left me of my soul, I accepted. Not because I feared death but because I could think of nothing that deserved my loyalty any more…"_

Initially I didn't feel a thing. That lasted for barely a moment before it registered. I looked down as the Muscovite soldier yanked that lance out of my belly and I saw hot red blood stain the front of my shirt. I can remember staring at it firstly in fascination and then in mild panic as it seemed to then pour out of me. I looked at him and I remember how he grinned at me. I didn't know him; I didn't know anything about him except that he was the enemy. My extremities became cold and numb and I sank to my knees in the mud amidst the other bodies piled around me. I was sure that I could hear my heart beat stutter in my chest for a moment, it sounded so loud inside of my head. My vision began to blacken and fade around the edges. So this was how my life was going to end, forgotten and unmourned in a battlefield consigned to the mists of history?

Apparently it wasn't. The next thing I remember is waking up in chaos. I could hear the screams of the wounded and dying around me as I came to lying on a crude pallet. I was choking on blood and so very _very_ cold. I knew that I could count my mortality in moments and it was then that I became aware of an ephemeral presence, someone by my side, watching me with keen pale eyes. His manner was furtive as he approached. He knew that I was dying; he told me he'd been watching me for a few days and that he had something infinitely precious to offer me. He asked me whether I would accept his gift should he extend the invitation. As my life force began to ebb away, I remembered my existence such as it was and realised then that I wasn't quite ready to let go of it just yet. I nodded my acceptance and watched his eyes turn a polished black.

* * *

My throat is parched I realise as I swallow down another mouthful of expensive red wine. I hadn't intended to reveal my beginnings to him. It's a part of my life that I don't discuss with anyone. Mr Snow will undoubtedly know, he makes it his mission to know everything that there is to know about his family so that he can use the information where and when necessary. I haven't told him any of my life before I was changed but he will know nevertheless.

_"You must have me mixed up with another werewolf you have chained up somewhere who gives a damn…"_

I'm strangely surprised to realise that Leo's answering scorn stings. It burrows beneath my skin. I don't know what I was expecting by sharing that shadowy part of me and in reality I should've expected it to be thrown back in my face so why does his reaction hurt me? It makes me defensive.

_"I want you to think that that there's hope…"_

_"Hope? For what?"_

The revelation comes out of nowhere. All of a sudden it is there and as the words leave my lips, I can barely believe that I've spoken them out loud.

_"That I can be saved."_

It shocks me rigid for a moment and it must show because as I turn, intending to leave him alone once more, his tone changes.

He tells me that he won't fight the next soul that he must face in that cage upstairs. He tells me he will throw himself onto the knife before he is fully transformed rather than kill again.

I pretend nonchalance, informing him that I'll have to change my bet but in reality I realise that he's telling the truth. I realise then that he's being brutally honest when he says that death doesn't frighten him and for a brief moment I envy and respect him for that.

His next words stop me in my tracks.

_"But I don't think you want to be you either…"_

I go utterly still as his words sink in. Slowly I turn around to look at him. There is no look of triumph, no expression of accomplishment at this insight. Instead he regards me with a grain of sympathy, of understanding. How could this possibly be? How could he possibly _know_?

_"Sometimes we don't have a choice…"_

My whispered confession is barely audible and faintly treasonous. His next words stun me anew

_"Then we are both in chains."_

I feel them wrapped around me. They attached themselves to me from the moment I came to on that pallet with the roar of battle still echoing inside of my head and they have gradually and subtly tightened and suffocated me as the decades and then the centuries have slid past.

I can barely breathe because of them. Suddenly I crave freedom but it scares me. I have had brief forays but they never last for long, I'm always dragged back into its darkness, its hunger. I can never truly escape from it. The enormity of the situation threatens to overwhelm.

I take a breath. No. I have lived this way of life for over four centuries now, why should the words of this man, this _dog_ affect me? He's wrong; _he's_ the one in chains.

_No he isn't. He speaks the truth_; the insidious voice inside of my skull is sly.

He asks me my name and I tell him. It's Hal.

_"This is our last conversation Hal…"_

_No, no no no no_. I'm not prepared for this to be finally over. As I approach him once more, the tension inside of me ratchets up another notch. It feels almost like…panic.

Cycles. I live my life in cycles. I can normally feel when one is about to end and another is about to begin. It is a never ending process. As I look down at him I begin to realise that this is what this feeling of disquiet that I've been experiencing recently has been about. Why didn't I recognise it for what it was? I don't know who is going to emerge next. I can feel it well up inside of me, I am afraid.

_"Even if the next cycle brings someone kind, it won't last. Ten years from now, thirty, fifty, this man will return and he'll be even worse. He always is…"_

He offers to help me. As he speaks, it begins to filter through. He believes that my visits to him have been a test of some sort, but a test of what…and how? I stare at him in mute disbelief when he suggests that he be my guide, to help me step into the light.

It's been such a long time since I last felt the light touch my soul. I've almost forgotten what it feels like. It sound so tempting, so easy to accomplish and for a moment I long for it, that sense of utter freedom, that feeling of emancipation.

Dark suspicion drops almost immediately. A necessary force of habit.

_"What's in it for you?"_

It's true when they say that nothing is ever for free. It isn't, there's always a bargain to be struck and one party is always worse off. There is _always _a catch.

He shares with me his dream and it sounds so simple. He doesn't wish for the world, just a barber's shop, somewhere where he can suffer his curse in safety and a beer at the end of the day. It sounds honest. It sounds…wonderful.

I hear the unspoken invitation; see the hope in his eyes and every fibre of my being goes on alert. For a moment, I want that too, I want that simple life he describes. In the background I can hear the sound of the door being unlocked and pushed open. I should turn around and walk out of here as I have done on every other occasion. I should go back upstairs, re-join my guests and enjoy the night's entertainment and the promises of the rest of the evening with Daisy.

But I stay where I am and I stare at him with wide eyes. I stiffen further when I hear slow footsteps descend. They'll be here soon.

Leo holds out a hand. I stare at it almost fearfully, longingly.

_"This is the moment Hal, what you do now is going to change everything….here it comes."_

Here it comes.

**FIN.**


End file.
